


Try to run from that, say you’re done with that

by betterrooms



Series: Can’t deny that I want you, but I'll lie if I have to [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrooms/pseuds/betterrooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They still don’t really talk about things. They never have to talk about what’s going to happen. </p><p>No matter how hard he tries to distract himself, all Harry can think about is missing Zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try to run from that, say you’re done with that

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Take Care, Drake.
> 
> I just couldn't leave this series alone.

It’s been two weeks. Two long, slow weeks since Harry last saw Zayn.

The first few days he slept. Crashed out on the mattress on the floor of his empty bedroom in a sleeping bag. He still hasn’t unpacked anything in his flat. The living room is completely full of moving boxes, each labeled with his neatest handwriting and still unopened, sellotaped shut, months after he’d first arrived. He knew there was a duvet stuffed in a box somewhere, probably the rest of his bedstead too. But when he’d arrived home, dragged his enormous suitcase over the threshold, weighed down with eleven pairs of identical black skinny jeans and a shot glass from every city they’d stopped in, he’d been too exhausted to bother to look for them. He’d just dropped heavily onto his makeshift bed, kicked his shoes and jeans off, left his jumper on and fallen into a dreamless sleep.

It’s very strange living in an empty flat. The rooms with fewer boxes in echo strangely as he walks through them. The sound of his socks scuffing on the polished wood floor and bouncing off the high ceiling. He’s exhausted, way too tired to really bother looking for anything. When he wants to make a cuppa he decides it’s not worth trying to find the kettle so he calls someone from the record label to ask if they can bring round a takeaway tea from Costa or somewhere. Then he feels so guilty about being showbiz that he has to pop out and buy flowers to say thank you to the harassed looking PA who turns up on his doorstep with a paper cup and a unimpressed expression on his face. On Tuesday he buys a whole new set of saucepans from John Lewis because it seemed easier than digging through the four ominously heavy cardboard boxes labeled ‘kitchen’ in marker pen capitals that are stacked in front of the fireplace.

After three days napping, watching iPlayer on his laptop and marinating in the lazy satisfaction of being on holiday after months of touring, he decides that he really needs a wash. He still hasn’t had his new bathroom fitted. Instead he has a room filled with the disassembled bits of a fancy glass walled shower, a lot of sawdust and a suffocating fresh paint smell. But it reaches a point where his hand gets stuck when he tries to run his fingers through his hair. So he gives up on trying to fill his stubbornly uninhabited flat with enough warmth that it feels like a home. He throws a few changes of pants into a holdall, pulls a beanie over his greasy curls and heads over to Ben’s to stay in his attic, use up all his tingly minty shampoo and make himself an ocean’s worth of tea using his mugs.

–

It’s as he’s drifting off to sleep on his first night at Ben’s he begins to feel like he’s missing something. That sort of stomach sinking feeling you get when you realize that you’ve left your house keys on a hook in the hallway just as the front door shuts behind you. Or when you can’t find your train ticket as you scrabble through your pockets just as the ticket inspector makes her way down the carriage. He jerks himself out of the beginning of sleep, his heart ricocheting around his ribs. He throws out a clumsy hand to the bedside table to check his phone and his journal are still there. But finding the familiar feel of soft leather under his blind fingertips does nothing to stop his pulse beating too fast through his veins. He sits up and flicks on the lamp next to the bed. He stares up at the low ceiling of the attic illuminated by the muted glow of an energy saving bulb that’s kicking itself into life. He runs through everything he might have forgotten in his mind. He has everything important with him, everything else is in a heap in his flat. He hasn’t missed anything, no important appointments or interviews or anything. He’s on holiday so that can’t be it.

It isn’t until he’s given up, curled up on his side in the dark again, that he realises what he’s missing. The comfort of feeling Zayn’s soft breath on the back of his neck, one hand pressing against Harry’s chest, keeping him close as he cuddles up behind him. The warmth of him as they share a bunk, crammed into such a tiny space, arms and legs tangled together and wrapped around each other. Breathing air that Zayn has already breathed, feeling the softness of his lips and the roughness of his stubble against his skin, the sharpness of his elbow as he tosses in his sleep. And Harry feels so alone then, sleeping by himself in a home that doesn’t belong to him, knowing that just outside London, Zayn is probably fast asleep and surrounded by family, wrapping himself up in their love. Definitely not thinking of Harry.

–

‘What’re you going to do on the break then?’ Zayn asks.

He’s sitting next to Harry on the floor of an enormous hotel room. They’re leaning against the side of the bed, Harry with his bare legs stretched out across the deep carpet, Zayn with his knees tucked up under his chin, his arms clasped around his shins. It’s late. Really late. Outside the city centre has finally fallen quiet. The silence is only broken by the occasional siren or the roar of a car accelerating down the empty streets. The wall in front of them is glass, and with the darkness outside it forms a mirror. Harry watches Zayn’s reflection. He finds he can’t help it, he can’t look away.

Earlier that evening they’d had a few beers with the rest of the boys, enjoyed the chaos and tumble of an night on the bus. Harry had lost dramatically, over and over again at FIFA. But as the night came to an end, all five of them yawning in a heap of blankets, X Box controllers and empty crisp packets, Zayn and Harry had left the others. They’d come up to the intimidating luxury and anonymity of Harry’s hotel room.

They still don’t really talk about things. They never have to talk about what’s going to happen. As soon as the door clicks shut Harry backs Zayn against the bed, pushing him down onto the crisp, ironed sheets. He stops for a moment to look down at him. The inky darkness of his hair framing him against the white cotton. Zayn stretches his hands above his head, flexing the narrow line of his body, arching his back. The lines of his tattoos shift over his muscles as he moves, his skin taut over his ribs. Harry can barely stand to look at him, he’s so beautiful. He pounces, kissing the soft fullness of Zayn’s mouth with ferocity, pulling at his belt buckle with inept fingers.

Later, they sit, sometimes in silence, sometimes chatting, the TV mounted on the wall above them muted. They’re sitting apart, about a width of paperback between them, but Harry is so physically aware of every one of Zayn’s movements, even when they’re not touching. 

 ‘I dunno, I guess go back to mine. Sleep, see friends. The usual’ Harry says, pushing his toes into the dense carpet pile, ‘How about you?’

 ‘Oh, um’ Zayn pauses, keeps his eyes straight ahead as he answers, ‘I guess I’ll go home. Stay with my family. Chill out.’

 Harry hums, knocks his head into Zayn’s shoulder, as though to say, ‘sounds good man’ before actually saying, ‘come on, let’s go to bed before I fall asleep on the fucking floor. Again.’

–

It’s only when Harry thinks back, lying in Ben’s attic that he realizes that he said, or didn’t say, the wrong thing. That maybe, just maybe, Zayn wanted him to finally put into words everything that has been going unsaid between them. Zayn is so often quiet. For someone who is so aware of the power of words, he’s not very good as using them to express himself. He relies on the tenderness of his touches, the softness of the looks he gives to say what he means. It’s Harry who blunders in and verbalizes stuff. Even though it takes him a while, circling round his point rather than going directly for it, he usually gets there in the end. Now he realizes that Zayn was opening the door, giving him a little push, permission to say that all he really wants is to be waking up to see Zayn with most of his head tucked under the duvet, just the strong line of his eyebrows and the mop of his sleep mussed quiff visible, to hear the snuffles of his breathing as he sleeps. That a holiday without Zayn doesn’t seem like a holiday at all.

The problem with not talking about things is that important moments pass unremarked upon. And it is so easy not to notice that they’re gone until it’s too late.

 –

The only way Harry knows to cope with feeling sad, with missing someone, is to throw himself into living. He launches himself back into London life, drinking bitter Champagne cocktails in private member’s clubs and being stunned by the bright lights of photographer’s flashes as he does his best to look handsome and rakish while stumbling through the streets of the West End. It takes two weeks, six fashion shows, eight nights where he’s crashed through Ben’s front door after four in the morning, four expensive taxi journeys out to Dalston, two hours spent sitting on the floor of a unisex bathroom trying not to be sick again while a couple make out in the next cubicle, two pairs of brown suede boots, five pictures on the front page of the Metro of him looking drunk and one portion of chips and cheese procured from a dodgy chip shop called The In Plaice before Harry gives up trying to numb himself with the city.

He’s exhausted. When he looks in the mirror above the bathroom sink in Ben’s bathroom he can see the green tone his skin has taken on. He picks at a particularly large spot that’s sprouting near his hairline and sighs. It’s probably time to try going home again.

 –

In the car on the way back to his flat he finally texts Zayn. Perhaps it’ a surrender, being the first to break the silence. Or perhaps it’s the first truly brave thing Harry’s done since they parted.

‘Hey. U alright? .x’

It’s not until he’s sitting on the floor of his living room, surrounded by the contents of a box marked ‘Misc’ that mainly seems to be full of odd socks, Louis’ snap backs and old running trainers that he hears his phone buzz from the mantelpiece.

He springs to his feet, trips over a lamp in the middle of the room and reads the text,

‘Alright mate. How’s it goin? :) x’

‘Come over .x’ Harry texts back straight away. He can’t be bothered to be subtle. Zayn knows him too well for that to work anyway. He just wants to see him so so badly.

His phone lights up and vibrates across the marble, Zayn’s name flashes across the screen.

Harry answers, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi Haz’ Zayn sounds tired and distant, ‘You actually want me to come over?’

‘Please’ Harry says, almost in a whisper. He can’t keep how much he wants it from seeping into his voice.

‘Alright. I’ll call a car.’ Zayn says, ‘See you soon.’ 

And then he hangs up, without another word.

By the time Harry hears the heavy brass knocker of his front door, he’s made even more of a mess of the living room. Deciding that he really ought to make an effort to at least look like he’s semi together, he attempted to unpack everything all at one. So far all he’s managed to do is make his flat look like something apocalyptic happened. There’re clothes in a huge heap in one corner, plates stacked up in the middle of the room. And there’re bits of disassembled furniture blocking the way to the kitchen. He has put a bunch of awards and gold disks and stuff above the fireplace, but his Brit must have been damaged in the move because it lilts dramatically to one side. He’s hung a wreath of plastic flowers that were thrown on stage one night around his Bambi Award, it was always his favourite. Although, he thinks going to open the door, perhaps his token bit of decorating just makes the rest of the flat look even worse in comparison. 

The first thing Zayn says when he reaches the living room is ‘what the fuck happened in here? He rolls his eyes, ‘You bought this flat what, six months ago?’

Harry looks down at his feet, wiggling the toe that’s sticking out of the hole at the end of his sock.

‘You know you could of just called someone from the label to sort it out?’ Zayn says, hanging his jacket over an empty guitar case leaning against the wall. 

‘I know’ Harry says, ‘But I didn’t want someone else to go through my stuff. I wanted to make it my own.’

‘Yeah mate, well you’ve done a great job’ Zayn says, voice full of sarcasm. But when he looks up to meet Harry’s eyes, he looks fond.

Harry gives up trying to hold himself back then. He strides across the room and envelopes Zayn in a hug. He wraps his arms around his shoulders, feeling the angles of Zayn’s shoulder blades under his hands. He pushes his face into Zayn’s neck, breathing in the faded smell of his cologne and the smokiness that clings to his skin.

‘I missed you’ he says, the words muffled.

Zayn pulls back, ‘you did? I thought you were too busy being a millionaire playboy or whatever’

His words are sharp but Harry understands. He knows that Zayn sometimes disguises his hurt in bravado and silence.

So Harry ignores him, stumbles on, ‘I missed you so so much’.

And Harry may be well practiced in self-deprecation and self-criticism. He knows that he relies too much on the charm of his smile, that he strains his voice too much when he’s singing sometimes, that he can’t dance for shit, that his hair often looks like a seabird is nesting in it. But he knows that he’s brave and that he’s honest. That he never shies away from how he feels and he will share anything with the people he loves.

Perhaps that’s why he and Zayn work together. They’re opposites. Zayn keeps it all locked away. He can be completely impenetrable. He can paint that distant look on his face and shut everyone out. Harry has always done his best to break through, to crack the glossy exterior even when Zayn doesn’t let him. But he’s learnt from him too. Learnt that he can hold things back if he needs to, he doesn’t have to give all of himself away.

But now is not the time for restraint. He brings a hand up to Zayn’s jaw, tilts his face upwards.

‘You’re all I’ve been able to think about. I want you, please’

Zayn rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling, the corners of his eyes creasing. Harry’s struck all over again how fine his features are, the delicacy of his bone structure. 

‘You’re so ridiculous, you know that?’ Zayn says.

Harry nods, ‘Yep, I’m completely ridiculous. But I mean it. I never want to spend so long away from you again.’

Zayn’s quiet for a moment, then he says,

‘Alright.’

‘Really? You mean it? Alright?’ Harry asks, he’d been expecting a long talk, having to convince Zayn, having to talk through whatever this thing is between them.

‘Yep. I missed you too you idiot.’ Zayn says and he grabs the front of Harry’s jumper to pull him forwards and kisses him.

–

They wake up with the sun streaming through the uncurtained windows of Harry’s bedroom. The noise of the city waking up outside, people bustling off to work, staggering home from a night out and buses continuing their constant circuits of the city, like the blood pumping through its veins.

Harry rolls onto his side to look at Zayn who’s blinking himself awake next to him. They’ve kicked the blanket off in the night, overheated by the warmth of their tangled bodies. Zayn’s on his back, naked. Harry strokes a hand over his chest. He looks so slight under Harry’s big hands. Harry loves the narrowness of his chest, he watches it rise and fall with Zayn’s sleep heavy breaths.

‘Mornin’ Zayn says, his voice husky.

Harry rolls over and kisses a line down his stomach, savouring the taste of his unwashed skin. The remnants of the sheen of sweat from the night before. Zayn hums his encouragement as Harry presses his lips to the line of Zayn’s hip and then moves further down the bed. He settles in between Zayn’s legs on his stomach and kisses the insides of Zayn’s slight thighs. He strokes his hand over the tautness of the muscle there. He looks up to see Zayn looking down at him, his eyes shadowed by the length of his eyelashes. Zayn pushes his fingers through Harry’s hair, gently, so so gently running his hand through his curls.

It’s the moments like this that Harry really treasures. He loves the panting, rough desperation of times like the night before, when they roll over and over, gripping each other tightly, biting tender flesh, groaning into each other’s mouths. But these quite intimate moments, where Zayn is so careful, so soft and Harry can feel how much he cares in the way he strokes the back of his neck, they’re perfect.

Harry’s heart skips.

And when he takes Zayn deep into his mouth, he tries to show with the flat of his tongue, with the way he moans, that he doesn’t think it would be possible to care about Zayn any more.

He really hopes that Zayn understands.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, why not come say hi on Tumblr.  
> indoorrain.tumblr.com


End file.
